


Wanting Out

by ghostie_withthemostie



Series: Crush(ed) [1]
Category: Beetlejuice (1988), Beetlejuice - All Media Types
Genre: Blood, Drunkenness, Dubious Consent, F/M, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Swearing, Vaginal Fingering
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-12-23
Updated: 2015-12-23
Packaged: 2018-05-08 13:59:38
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,955
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5499695
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ghostie_withthemostie/pseuds/ghostie_withthemostie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Four years after the events in Winter River, Lydia is thinking about ending things. One vodka-spurred decision later and she might just be in over her head.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Wanting Out

**Author's Note:**

> This was originally posted a few months ago. My account was hacked and my works were deleted. Some people are just petty and sad that way. 
> 
> I don't own any of these characters. 
> 
> I encourage you to read all of Richard Siken's poetry, especially Crush. 
> 
> Thank you.

Lydia’s head swam on the couch cushion, staring at the bottle in her hand, wondering if she’d actually do it. She knew what the afterlife was like, had dealt with a few of its inhabitants first-hand. They had said it wasn’t something she wanted, which she had believed for a while. Now, though…its appeal was seducing her far more than this sham she called her life. Barbara and Adam had explained the fate of those who committed suicide in the afterlife, she knew of the boring and tedious eternity that would follow. So how, then, to make sure she wasn’t stuck with that particular fate? Could she just walk around blatantly, hoping for a fatal accident to befall her? No, she needed to be…killed. Murdered. But, again, how? A lot of people probably didn’t care about her existence one way or the other, but was there anyone vengeful and full of enough hatred towards her to actually take her out?

            Lydia took another swig from the bottle in her hand, the undiluted spirit burning the back of her throat. _Spirits…ghosts_ …there was _one_ person—well, thing—that actually might hate her enough to finish the job. But wasn’t he…dead? _Dead_ dead? She had seen him swallowed up by that striped snake creature, so for all she knew _that_ was the end of _that_ , but…

            Mentally shrugging and taking another sip of vodka for courage, she steeled herself to say the words that she hadn’t heard spoken since the incident in Winter River over four years ago.

            “Beetlejuice, Beetlejuice…,” heaving a deep sigh, she completed the incantation, “….Beetlejuice.”

            For a moment, absolutely nothing happened. Lydia flopped back against the pillows, throwing her arm over her eyes, feeling even more stupid and worthless than usual. _Really, what did she expect-_ but her thoughts were interrupted by a trembling sensation as the couch underneath her began to shake, a green glow effusing between the cracks in the wooden floor. Lydia shot up as quickly as her alcohol-inhibited coordination would allow, staring at the spot on the ground that was glowing the brightest. From it rose a figure in monochromatic stripes, staring down as he tugged his cuffs into place. Lydia felt a thrill of absolute terror, because— _oh god_ —it was him. Exactly the same, from the top of the moldy hairline and down to the worn, black combat boots. Her eyes wide and glassy, she clutched the half-empty bottle to her chest in approbation.

            “The afterlife’s leading bio-exorcist, always available for house calls, ready to rid you of the pesky liv-,” Beetlejuice had finally glanced up, spotting her on the couch. They stared at one another for a beat, before realization dawned on him and he jumped back, his hands thrown out in front of him. “Oh no, oh _fuck_ no! Is this a fucking joke or am I seriously standing in front of the goth princess queen of bitches that stood me up on our wedding day and whose fucking dead-fuck white-bread pals landed me in the jaws of a goddamn sand worm and back to the mercies of the fucking afterlife tribunal?! Please tell me I am on some really good shit and that is not what’s going down, because I am telling you, kid, I am in _no fucking mood!_ ”

            Lydia could only blink at this tirade as he stood, arms still thrown out and chest heaving with anger. _He certainly seems pissed enough to kill me…_ She gulped, not having imagined how to progress past this point.

            He rushed up to her, pointing a grime-covered fingernail in her face. “Do you have _any_ fucking idea how much trouble I could be in if my parole office finds out I’m here? We’re talking Saturn, we’re talking perpetual fucking indentured servitude to the tribunal,” he listed the possible repercussions on his fingers as he turned to pace in agitation, “loss of all traveling privileges between this world and mine, I mean, do you _know_ how many dicks I had to suck—figuratively, not literally, babes, you know I ain’t into that—just to be allowed to _freelance_?” Beetlejuice turned his back to her, tugging his already disheveled hair in frustration. “I’m on probation, _pro-bay-shun_ , do you know the word? That means _this_ ,” here he gestured between the two of them, “is NOT allowed to happen. No contact with your Maitlands, your dweeby-ass dad, your freakshow mom, and _especially_ not YOU.” He took a deep breath, his eyes wild and burning. Gesturing with one hand in a let’s-get-on-with-it motion he finished, “Now, send me back!”

            “No.” Lydia was pleased that her voice didn’t betray the terror she was feeling at that moment. Beetlejuice growled, throwing his hands up in the air and pacing once again.  She continued, “I-I can see that you’re mad-“

            “I’m MAD, she says,” Beetlejuice screamed at the ceiling. “Mad!!!” He ran towards her, grabbing the collar of her shirt and rattling her. “You haven’t seen mad, yet, kid. Give it another thirty seconds of you _not_ saying my name three times and getting me the FUCK out of here, and you’ll GET. MAD.”

            Lydia panted in his grasp, fright and some other—more confusing—emotions flooding her. Fighting the tremor in the voice, she continued, “You’re a bio-exorcist, right? You get rid of living people? Well, I…I want out.” She lifted her chin, holding his gaze.

            Upper lip curling in a sneer, Beetlejuice took note of her blown out pupils, leaning closer to sniff around her face. Looking down, he spotted the bottle of cheap vodka she still held clutched in a death grip to her chest. He snatched it (Lydia reacting with a feeble ‘heey’) and shook its depleted contents. “Fucking. Classic.” He stood up, taking the bottle with him and helping himself to a healthy swig. “Sad, trashed little girl calls up the monster to finish the job that she’s too scared to finish for herself. Uh-uh.” Beetlejuice took another gulp of the vodka. “Not interested.”

            Lydia stood, weaving slightly on legs wobbly from drink and fear. “If-If you don’t then I’ll just kill myself anyway and when I get to the other side, I’ll tell them that _you_ drove me to it! That you’ve been visiting me and trying to get me to marry you again!”

            Beetlejuice narrowed his eyes at her. “I don’t respond well to threats, kid.” His voice was low and menacing.

            “It’s not a threat! You think I’m not serious?!” Lydia stumbled over to the kitchen in a drunken rush. After finding what she was looking for, she returned to stand in front of Beetlejuice, holding a butcher knife to her throat. “Do you think they’d believe _you_ over _me?_ ”

            His expression unreadable, Beetlejuice finished off the contents of the bottle. He stood regarding the empty vessel thoughtfully for a few moments before smashing it violently on the ground between them, making Lydia jump. In three strides, he closed the gap between them, boots crunching over the shattered glass. He gripped the back of her neck with his left hand, using the right to wrench the knife from her fist. “Why, why, _why_ do ya wanna be dead so bad?” He punctuated his query with violent shakes of the hand gripping her neck, causing her head to jolt back and forth like a ragdoll’s.

            Lydia’s eyes began to fill with tears. She screamed, “Because I can’t _feel anything_! Life is pointless and I’m dead inside anyway so just! Do it!” Reaching out for the hand in which he clutched her would-be cause of death, she attempted to yank it back towards her vulnerable throat. He kept it easily out of her reach.

            “Shut up. Stop crying,” he barked, shaking her once more in emphasis. Lydia hiccupped, fighting back more tears. He shoved her backward, pointing to the couch with his free hand. “Sit down for one goddamned second and let me think.”

            Lydia obeyed, wiping her eyes with the back of one hand, leaving a smear of black from her eye makeup. She watched him pace in front of her, rubbing his chin. After what felt like an eternity, he stopped, turning to assess her.

            “’Kay. Fine. _What_ ever. Let’s do this.” Beetlejuice transferred the knife to his mouth, gripping the blade in his teeth while he began unbuttoning his coat. After shrugging it off and tossing it over a nearby lamp, he removed the knife from his mouth and moved closer to her. “Don’t wanna get blood on my jacket,” he gave, by way of explanation, as her eyes tracked the movement of the striped article of clothing.

            Lydia’s heart stuttered as he advanced, knife angled up to press beneath her chin. _Finally…_ she thought. Her eyes squeezed shut in expectation.

            Nothing happened. The tip of the blade dug in to the tender skin slightly, but not enough to draw blood. She waited, her heart thudding.

            “Soooo…,” he growled, close enough that she could feel the cool puff of his breath on her cheek, “…there’s nothing? This is really making you feel _nothing_?”

            Lydia shook her head defiantly, keeping her eyes screwed shut. The hand not gripping the weapon grabbed the back of her head, wrenching it backward roughly by the hair. She gasped audibly when she felt the blade break the skin and a warm trickle of blood slid down her neck and between her breasts. Her pulse pounded in her ears, chest heaving.

            “Fucking liar,” Beetlejuice chuckled, pulling backward and hurling the knife across the room. Lydia’s eyes flew open in outrage as he crossed his arms, “You’re not ready for this.”

            “Yes! I! _AM!”_ She stood up, “God _damn it_ , just!-“

            Beetlejuice pointed at her, triumphant. “ _That_ is anger.”

            “It’s _frustration_!” Lydia screeched.

            “Which is also a _feeling¸_ you dumb cunt.”

            Lydia flew at him, hands twisted into claws, fully intending to go straight for his eyes. He dodged her neatly, keeping her sharp little nails at a safe distance from his face.

            “Me-YOW! Watch it there, kitty, wouldn’t want ya to wreck my meal ticket,” he laughed unpleasantly as she struggled to remove herself from his grip. Lydia let loose a wordless squeal of rage. “There’s the anger! What else can we make you _not_ feel, hmm,” he transferred one of her wrists over so that they were both trapped by one hand and gripped the back of her head yet again, mashing his mouth against hers. When Lydia screamed in disgusted surprise, Beetlejuice capitalized on the opportunity, thrusting his tongue forward to invade her mouth. He tasted like vodka, cigarettes, and death, and Lydia struggled even more to disentangle herself from him. When he brought his teeth down hard on her bottom lip, Lydia hissed in pain. Beetlejuice pulled his head backward, searching her face in amusement. “How’s about that?”

            “Eeeugghhh…,” was all Lydia could summon to describe the experience.

            Head tilted, he mock-pouted down at her. “Revulsion? Not what I was going for, but, hey! It’s a feeling, right? Let’s see if we can’t do a little better…”

            In some grotesque parody of a waltz, Beetlejuice spun them around the cramped living room until Lydia’s back was pressed against the wall. Halting her attempt to wrench free with a knee pinned between her thighs, he pressed forward until his entire body was flush against her small frame. She attempted to wiggle loose but both the wall behind her and the corpse in front of her were equally as unyielding.

            “Beetlej--!” She was cut off abruptly when Beetlejuice’s hand forced her chin upward, causing her head to smack backward into the wall and her teeth to snap shut on her tongue. She felt her mouth fill with blood.

            “I don’t think so, babes. I told you to send me back, then ya went and riled me up so now you gotta see it through ‘til the end. Show a little responsibility for your actions, hm? You’re a big girl now, aren’t ya?” He leaned back slightly, eyes travelling down her body and back up again, whistling wolfishy at the skin left exposed by the oversized v-neck shirt that functioned as her pajamas. “Certainly seems that way from where I’m standing…”

            The leg that was wedged between her thighs pressed upward slightly and Lydia whined in panicked confusion, the sound muted somewhat since Beetlejuice still held her jaw trapped shut with his hand. His eyebrows shot up in surprise. Lydia’s breath came out in short huffs through her nostrils when he repeated the movement, making him chuckle darkly.

            “Poor, sad, little dead-inside wannabe-dead girl. Can’t feel anything, wasn’t that what you told me?” Beetlejuice released her trapped wrists, the fingers tingling when the circulation returned to them. She let them fall to her sides, hands balling into fists. He trailed a finger down the now dark and sticky line of blood that ran down her throat, smearing it around between her cleavage, before moving the hand lower to tug up on the hem of her nightshirt. He watched her face, head tilted and mouth curled in a smirk, daring her to stop him. She didn’t move. She couldn’t; not when she felt the cool air hit her exposed undergarments, and not even when he tucked the hem of the shirt into the vee of her neckline, effectively keeping the garment out of the way. His fingers spider-crawled over the flat expanse of her belly, making the muscles underneath twitch at the sensation, until he reached the waistband of her panties, pulling it back and releasing it with a snap that was nearly deafening in the tense silence.

            “Feeling anything now?” He purred at her in an attempt at sensuality.

            Glaring at him down her nose, Lydia, very slowly and deliberately, shook her head “no.”

            Beetlejuice threw back his head, cackling. “Aw, shit, kid. I’m starting to remember what I liked so much about you a few years back. Not to mention discovering some new ones…” At this, he shifted his thigh back far enough for his hand to glide over her clothed sex, one finger pressing upward at her entrance, the fabric darkening, soaking up her arousal. Lydia groaned, her very body betraying her.

            “Now, I’ve been dead for a decent amount of time, babe, but I can still recognize life when I…,” his fingers moved the cloth blocking her sex to one side and he slid one into her slick channel, crooking it forward against the bundle of nerves inside of her, making her inhale sharply, her eyes fluttering closed, “… _feel_ it.” Adding a second finger to join the first, he began pumping them in and out, keeping the pressure on that spot deep inside that was rapidly bringing her to precipice of completion. She moaned behind his hand.

            Beetlejuice’s eyes, already sinister and full of mischief, appeared even more so now with his pupils dilated, watching every change in her face as he increased the rhythm of his hand. “That’s right,” he growled, his voice low and gravelly, “that’s a good girl…”

            Lydia was panting against his hand, her hips starting to rock forward to meet his fingers. She had just started to feel the first exquisite tinglings of her release when suddenly, all sensation ceased as he yanked away from her, making her whine.

            Beetlejuice watched her, amusement in his voice as he asked, “Still feel nothing?”

            Lifting a shaking hand to wipe a trail of blood that had escaped her mouth from when he had forced her to bite her tongue, Lydia glared at him. He licked his arousal-coated fingers, unconcerned.

            “Because, you know, if you ask nicely, I might find it in my heart to—“

            “Beetlejuicebeetlejuicebeetlejuice!” Lydia screamed.

            “Fuc-,” there was a puff of gray smoke and the ghost was gone.

            Lydia sank down to the ground on legs still trembling with adrenaline and the lingering effects of her denied orgasm. She sat that way for some time, holding her head in her hands while she attempted to process what had just occurred. She was still slightly drunk enough to try and convince herself that it had been some bizarre nightmare, but the stinging burn of the cuts on her throat and in her mouth, paired with the stickiness between her thighs, were proof enough that this was all too real. Glancing up, she spotted more evidence against her dream-theory: the shattered glass of her vodka bottle and—yes—a black and white striped suit jacket, draped casually over a lamp on a side table.

            Standing unsteadily, Lydia stepped gingerly around the shards, reaching for the jacket as though only the physical sensation of it in her hand would prove to her, beyond the shadow of a doubt, that it—that _he_ —had really been there. Her hand closed over a sleeve. Solid. _Real_.

            She yanked her hand away, backing up from the offending piece of clothing as though burned. Breathing heavily, she moved to head back into her room and pass out, but paused at the doorway, looking back at the coat once again. She didn’t let herself think about it as she snatched it, carrying it with her to her darkened bedroom. Pretending it meant nothing, chalking it up to drunken sentimentality, Lydia wrapped it over her shoulders and dropped into a dreamless oblivion.

\------------------

 

"We pull our boots on with both hands

but we can’t punch ourselves awake and all I can do

              is stand on the curb and say _Sorry_

_about the blood in your mouth. I wish it was mine._

 

I couldn’t get the boy to kill me, but I wore his jacket for the longest time."

 

-Richard Siken,  _Crush_ , p. 7, verse 7, "Little Beast"


End file.
